You are the sun and I am the moon
by ko-writes
Summary: The downward spiral of a moon, and it's rising. TW: eating disorder, depression, child abuse, unhealthy coping methods, etc. Tamakyo (Tamaki x Kyoya)
1. Intoxication

Kyoya Ootori was never one to smile, not truly. You could have a sincere smirk, or a fake beam, but he just wasn't one to smile.

Tamaki Suoh could always be relied upon to smile. Charming, happy, amused, obnoxious; and smile a person could name. He was a warm and happy person, the opposite of Kyoya; but there always did seem to be a bond between them. But, Kyoya was making it his mission to become a little more on par with the blond. Not in terms of personality, oh no; but in terms of appearance. Beauty would replace his hideousness, where once was fat would only be thin, beautiful skin.

But what Kyoya didn't know was that there was a circus mirror's image of himself in his mind. He didn't know that the Kyoya he saw wasn't real, just a piece of fiction from a diseased mind.

He didn't know that ribs and collarbones shouldn't be seen; or he did, and the fact was disregarded when he could see himself _jiggle_.

He didn't see that the fingers he forced down his throat were nothing more than bone and skin.

He didn't consider that that was the reason his friends gave him concerned looks. In his mind, as the number on the scale went down, the circus mirror contorted even more.

 _"They're pitying me. They can see how big I'm getting."_

But that wasn't it. Kyoya was ill, looked ill. His hair was thinning as well as his frame, his uniform hung off boney shoulders and his once beautiful ivory skin was pale and sickly, marred with dark circles under his eyes and blue veins that were to visable.

Kyoya saw none of that.

His health was declining, always so tired and exhausted. He just wanted to sleep... He couldn't sleep...

* * *

They got drunk one night. The twins and Haruhi stayed sober, but the others drank; even Honey.

Kyoya was the first to feel it's affects, no food in his stomach and little weight.

"Y'know," he slurred, "I think - I think Tam-Tamaki's the sun, and I'm the moon. No, no, no; it makes sense, don't worry."

"Sempai, I think you're a bit intoxicated..." Haruhi began, unsurehow to finish. She was just a little concerned...

"No, no, no," Kyoya denied, "listen, listen. He is so... Bright and eye catching, happy and warm; the sun. I am the moon; cold, dusty little rock no one really cares about. The moon reflects the sun's light, the sun makes him shine, but also shadows him; the moon will always be partly in darkness. No one cares about the moon."

"I think the moon is beautiful," Tamaki interjects, his speech lazy but not slurring. He's only tipsy, not to the point of drunk like Kyoya.

"From afar, possibly; in a tragic sort of way," Kyoya pondered, "But closer, closer you see it's just a dusty rock who's reputation for beauty is vastly overstated. I'm so much like the moon..."

Everyone agreed to put him into bed at that point, concerned for his well-being. They'd address it in the morning, when all of them were sober.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi guys! This is my first fanfiction for OHSHC and would appreciate a review. I'm fending off ideas for more, a lot more, and there will also be more chapters of this.**

 **See you soon!**


	2. Faust

They never did talk to him the morning after. The 'low blood pressure evil lord' had a hangover that felt like someone was chiselling into his skull; they ran away when they heard him growl at Haruhi, low and guttural.

 _Evil. Demon. Disgusting. Base. Animalistic. Perverse._

As anyone might expect, it seemed that the rest of the day would not be good, or even alright.

He stayed in bed, unmoving. He didn't have the strength to get up, the voices screeching in his pounding head.

He doesn't make it to the razor blade that day, but only because he can't get out of bed. He declines food and water, punishes himself that way instead; it doesn't lessen his despair.

He breathes, skinny chest rising and falling shallowly, slowly. He is still and pale, if he held his breath one could mistake him for a corpse.

And he does. He holds his breath for a few seconds before drawing another; the aesthetic of death without the commitment.

He wishes for a longer taste. He wishes to stop breathing while asleep. Unconscious and unbreathing; not unlike a statue of Faust.

Faust and he share common ground. If there is a hell, he'd like to shake his hand when he is inevitably sent there for his torturous afterlife. They are both impressive scholars, dissatisfied by life. He hasn't sold his soul to the devil, but he doesn't believe in such things; although unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures does make for an attractive offer.

He sighs, almost wishing he could sell his soul for happiness, even if it would come at a cost. But then he remembers that he's -

 _Impure. Unclean. No soul to give. Twisted. Psychopath._ _Defective -_

That he's Ootori Kyoya and doesn't believe in such things.

Instead of letting his mind rot in debauched fantasies, he gives up on the idea of emulating death, emulating Faust, and curls in on himself.

He's too warm, he's too cold. Too alone, wishes to remain in solitude forever.

He wishes to paint, he wishes to stay still and crumble away while his brushes lay snapped and splintered at the other side of the room.

Tamaki knew nothing of his true colours; they were not reflected in that piece. His true colours and black and murky brown, dark red blood and yellow puss defused throughout.

He is ugly in more ways than his face and body.

He wants them here, he prefers them away. The idea is fine, but fine ideas are rarely fine reality; ideas get corrupted in the harsh light of real life.

He wants Tamaki, Haruhi, Kaoru, Mori; hell, if he didn't have a headache, he'd want Honey and Hikaru, also.

He's fine alone. Monsters always dwell alone.

He wishes to meet Faust and shake his hand, say he understands; because he does. Oh, he does.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi guys! Chapters should be getting a little longer from here on (I hope).**


	3. Ana and Mia

**A/N: Ana is the nickname for Anorexia and Mia is the nickname for Bulimia; I decided to take an unconventional approach.**

* * *

Let it never be said that Kyoya was alone.

He had two lovers, Ana and Mia; both tall and thin, almost as tall as he was, and beautiful. Sisters, almost twins but not quite.

Ana is purity; beauty in a white, silken dress that hugs her in all the right places. There is nothing in her stomach and no scent of food on her breath that comes in whispers, but is sometimes so cutting it might as well be a shriek.

Mia is nothing pure. She has a love of fine food, fine wine and fine sex; she scorns the colour white and wears a siren's red instead. Her breath is laced with peppermint to hide how she remains as thin as her sister, but feasts on the best the gourmet world has to offer. Her voice is loud, as if she's yelling; but he loves her like that sometimes, it's like clarity to him.

They adore him, love him. They adore him when he skips another meal. Adore him when he has to cut another hole in his belt. Adore him when his underwear slips off his bony hips. In those moments, he adores them too.

Kyoya is an attentive lover; he nurtures them in sunlight, then Mia will lead him into the bathroom to have her way and Ana will drape herself around his shoulders possessively when they come back, his breath laced with peppermint to hid their sins.

But there are times they don't adore him. Ana has always been the jealous type, and Mia is far too gluttonous.

Whenever he has a meal with his family - forced to have a meal with his family - Ana screams and cries, tells them how useless he is and how she wants him to _die_. He's a good lover, knows to agree to her and stare at the ground. He's a pathetic worm that should crawl and beg for forgiveness - he's _impure_ , he's _evil_. He knows it's all true.

Mia doesn't mind it when he eats, she has a kink. She urges him to eat one more chocolate bar, one more biscuit, more, more, _more_. She stuffs him so full, all he can do is cry and grip at his swollen stomach; chocolate and powdered sugar smearing his face, hands and sometimes even his glasses. The truth is that Kyoya _does_ like sweets; but if he indulges in one, Mia stuffs him with twenty. He exercises abstinence, since self-control is no longer an option.

After, Mia and he go to the bathroom to partake in their sin; but it's dark and shadowed, not in the cool lighting it is in public. She forces his fingers down his throat, and he numbly feels the bite mark in his flesh as the half-digested binge is removed once more. She lectures him about listening to Ana more while he kneels there panting, vomit mixing with the other stains.

In those moments, he hates them and wants to leave.

But he can't. He won't. He needs them, so he'll stay. He loves them, really.

* * *

Kyoya was still a little hung over the next day, Monday.

He'd applied his mask - foundation for the sickly pallor, concealer for the dark circles, and powder to keep it all in place. His stomach gurgled in complaint, starved for three days and another two to go before a meal to appease his inner demon.

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine Ana wrapping her arms around his waist and mouthing at his neck. He loves them just as much as he loathes them.

He dresses and leaves for school.


	4. Grotesque Paintings

You feel a strange emotion when no one confronts you for your actions. It's almost a mix of joy, regret, abandonment and sorrow; but the feeling is elative, to know that there is little to no chance of atoning for what you've done.

Kyoya barely has to hide, because it's a matter of psychology, a matter of social etiquette; it's the bystander effect. In theory, he could walk down the school hallways shirtless - displaying the ribs he knows are breaking through his skin, yet covered in hideous lipids and the manifestation of ugliness, and the lacerations that are too straight and clean to be anything but self-inflicted - and no one would say a thing beyond asking him to cover up once again.

No one says anything about the uniform that hangs slack from his body, clinging at his sharp shoulders like a babe clings to their mother; but he lets it just hand there, uncaring.

Everyone sees the change in him, but he knows nothing will ever be said; it's the psychology that is proven and that he trusts in.

It almost makes him want to don short-sleeved shirts in summer, swim in only his trunks; it would surely provide him with even more feelings elation and power, as well as prove the theory to him once and for all. However, why risk what he has for something as meaningless as proving a theorem?

Everything was fine. He put on his mask with his makeup, hid behind his baggy clothes, and slipped effortlessly into his shadow king persona for the day; but then the day passed and host club began.

There were looks. Looks from all of them.

Mia drooled over the delicate French pastries that Honey had been treated with, while Ana kept her firm grip around his waist until the hunger pangs became a source of pleasure.

But then, they sent the last girl home.

Then, Haruhi asked him why he'd gotten so thin; then, the twins asked why he was so sad; then, Honey and Mori tried to get him to _eat_ ; and finally, Tamaki _had_ to pull him into a hug, saying how he could talk to him whenever he wanted.

They were the exceptions to the rule. They were anomalies. They disproved his beliefs and he was left with nothing, the mask torn from his skin leaving gaping wounds; blood, pus and lipids languidly, disgustingly, oozed from ripped skin and stained his neck and shirt.

Tears fell, stinging his delusional wounds and tainting Tamaki's soft skin.

He was filthy, he was vile, ugly, stupid, unfair, psychopathic, ruthless…

Insults pounded in his head at a dizzying speed; he didn't even realise that they were pouring from his mouth like bile until his friends tried to soothe him, telling him that he was none of those things, that they'd help him get better.

He only sobbed, the sounds broken as his disgusting, traitorous body. He didn't want to get better, he didn't want to eat. What he wanted was for his pitiful existence to be put to an end, but he wasn't brave enough to jump, or to shoot himself; he could overdose, he could slit his wrists and maybe his throat… but he was a coward, and probably wouldn't be successful.

They promise to help him get better; he highly doubts that it's possible.

When he leaves and returns home, he picks up his paint brushes, oils and a canvas. He paints his grotesquery in blood red, puss and yellow fat leaking from the abomination's face; Quentin Matsys has nothing on him.

The creature is his psyche, twisted and repulsive; it holds a mask, the inside stained with blood and clumps of skin, and the body is skewed, as if it is a reflection in a circus mirror.

By the time he's done, it's gone three o'clock in the morning and he collapses into bed and he swears his fingers are bleeding from their art.

He drifts into a troubled sleep full of his funhouse nightmares.

* * *

 **A/N: Quentin Matsys painted a satirical portrait known as The Ugly Duchess in 1513, also known as A Grotesque Old Women.**


	5. Bear-baiting

There was once great sport in bear-baiting. Of course, this so-called game was from the same people who thought tearing off the greased head of a goose, hanging from a tree, while on horseback was entertainment.

It was a cruel, barbaric pass-time which consisted of chaining a bear to the wall and watching as dogs tore it to pieces.

A bear is a powerful and proud creature, but in the ring it is worthless; just meat for rabid dogs and entertainment for deranged humans.

He feels like that bear now, sitting in the cafeteria with a plate of - _poison, fat, calories_ \- food in front of him and the other members of the host club surrounding him.

 _Rabid dogs_.

He never thought he would compare himself to a bear, but it seems fitting for the way he feels. His chains are _responsibility_ , _guilt_ and _caring_ , and the dogs are his so-called friends. A friend would let him continue on his semi-functional, if self-destructive, path.

"Kyouya... don't have to eat it all... only... little..." He can't even register _who_ the broken voice is. It seeps through his consciousness in tatters as he stares at the plate.

"No."

His voice doesn't waver. He refuses to be the terrified animal lashing out. He's Kyoya Ootori and he. does. _not_. _**feel**_.

"Please Kyouya, we're worried about you."

He tears his stare from the food and glares at Tamaki, the 'prince' that will be his un-doing. "There is no need to be concerned -"

"Bullshit," Mori grunts, and all the hosts grimace. They barely hear Mori speak, let alone swear, "You need to eat Kyoya."

The dogs are closing in, putrid saliva dripping from discoloured fangs. The chains tighten as he thrashed, trying to get away; the chain _caring_ tightens around his throat, suffocating him and he's dying and he can't breathe and - and -

He turns his gaze back to the food. He pants against the obstruction in his trachea, desperate for oxygen.

A hand on his back. He jumps and arches away, and it goes; Tamaki murmuring apologies.

He rests his elbows on the table and takes fistfuls of his hair, pulling at the dry strands.

More hands, gently prying open his hands. He feels tears in his eyes and doesn't even care about the lifeless black hairs falling to the floor.

With shaking hands, he picks up his spoon; it's a stew of some variety, but he doesn't remember what. He cautiously dips the silverware into the now tepid meal, more liquid than anything else, thank God.

With one quick motion, he brings the stew - broth, really - into his mouth and pretends he can't feel his stomach rolling.

Three more days.

 _Three more days, Kyouya! You're worthless, completely worthless!_

Ana shrieks, and he knows she's right, right, _right_ , and he can't do anything because he's still surrounded by the rabid attack dogs. He wants to cry, to vomit, to bleed, to die; anything is better than the crushing feeling of panic and guilt that is running through him with it's stomach's revulsion at the offering of food, yet pleading for more.

There is the faint clatter of silverware on high quality tile and he starts to shake. Tears pool in his eyes and he bites his lip.

This is his grotesquery. Gone is the Kyouya who was _finally_ getting skinny, and there lies a slothenly, gluttonous _monster_.

He stands abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor, and sweeps the bowl of _toxins_ to the floor.

The room goes silent, all eyes on him. He can't breathe around the chain and hot tears are already spilling down his cheeks.

He runs.

He runs as fast as he can to the rest room, Ana screaming at him and Mia calling after him because she always knows what to do.

He locks himself in a stall, getting on his knees and shoving two fingers down his throat. He vomits.

He vomits and vomits until he can taste blood, then a little more to be sure it's _all out_.

In that moment, on his knees in a public restroom with bile and blood running down his pasty chin, he curses his existence.

He sits back on his heel and rocks. He rocks himself like he's finally gone insane, looking for a little comfort in his dark world.

He rocks until he feels exhaustion drag him under, and he collapses against one of the stall walls; he can't tell which because he's so dizzy up might be down and he'd never know the difference.

Maybe this is the end? Dying in his metaphorical darkness, locked in the stall of the men's room. It is ungraceful, disgusting, unclean, and he feels he _deserves_ it, that it _suits_ him.

His last thoughts drift to Tamaki as he falls into the very literal darkness of unconsciousness.

 _I'm sorry... My dear friend..._

* * *

 **A/N: I would like to make it clear that I DID NOT kill Kyouya...**

 **... Or did I?**

 **Guess you'll have to wait and find out! ;)**


	6. Sunburn

Chapter Text

Kyouya, my dearest friend.

You thought you were worthless, that you were ugly, that you were fat; and other lies. I did nothing.

I did nothing, when I should have.

I saw how thin you were, how you could barely carry your satchel anymore. I saw how you didn't smile anymore. I saw how you always kept your arms and thighs covered.

I was an idiot, mon ami.

You compared yourself to the lonely, desolate moon and I to the warm sun; I said that the moon was beautiful. Because it is. Because _you_ are, my dearest.

Do you know how many lovers stare at the moon for it's romantic beauty? The light it gives, while being a reflection of the sun, is cool and so soft; it is like the caress of soft cotton sheets. Do you know how many tried to reach the moon before it finally happened?

On the moon, it is just as beautiful. It may be dusty, but it is mysterious and so, so rare; and if you look out, you see the earth has the same shadow as the moon.

You compared me to the sun for my warmth, for my shine. Did you know that the sun's temperature is 5500°C? Mercury has a surface temperature of 427°C when in sunlight, and it always stays 57,909,227 kilometres away from that mass of burning gasses.

You didn't know how accurate that comparison was, only not in the way you meant it to be.

The sun is ordinary. People are used to it. It's boring.

The moon is so, so beautiful. That many admire it. Many have aspired to go there, and many still do.

The sun burns everything that goes near it; Mercury is so hot, it's core is molten iron. I hurt everyone I get close to, and I always have. I don't know how to stop... I want it to stop...

I see it now, Kyouya; you're my Mercury. I scorched you from the inside out, because I allowed you to become as close to me as anyone ever has. The burns lie on your body in the form of scars and lacerations, and ribs breaking through paper skin; and they lie in your mind as this disgusting darkness that is eating you away. I'm sorry.

You're skin is almost translucent now, a white as the sheets you lay upon.

Mummy, your room is far too white; maybe some colour would help!

... I know it won't, I apologise.

Did you know how much of a beauty you look? You're skin was pale as snow, your hair black as night; wasn't Snow White the fairest of them all?

... You'd probably give me a scathing remark for that comparison.

Kyouya, please wake up.

I hold your hand in mine, my thumb against your pulse to assure myself that you aren't actually dead.

Wake up soon, please.

I gaze at the bandages and gauze wrapped around your arms, and a glass tear slips from my eye.

 _I burned you so deep._

My Snow White; please wake up...

* * *

 **A/N:** **Yay! Kyouya's not dead!**

 **Short chapter is short, but whatever.**


	7. Brief Consciousness

He awakes slowly, the pounding between his eyes so strong that he can only wince. Sound slowly seeps into his consciousness, but it's almost as if he is submerged in water; everything is muffled and distant.

Everything was peaceful a moment ago. It was just him and the darkness, that serene darkness; he almost thought he'd died.

However, that wasn't the case. He was, he assumed, still living. Well, still with a pulse; if you were to ask him, Kyouya Ootori died a long time ago.

"Kyouya?"

That voice. That voice that could be so obnoxious and irritating one moment, and then morph into something resembling soothing. Kyouya was honestly annoyed and heartbroken in equal measure to hear it, a conformation that his heart had failed to stop.

"Kyouya? Are you awake?"

It's a soft inquiry, and Kyouya hums in the back of his throat. It burns.

He slowly opens a single eye, the lids heavy and threatening to stick, and then the other. The sun drifting lazily through the skylight almost blinds him, and he whimpers at the pains in his stomach.

The sun catches Tamaki's hair from his position, sitting on the bed next to him; the light almost forms a golden halo, and Kyouya fought the urge to scoff at the ridiculous imagery.

A cup of cool water is pressed against his chapped and sore lower lip as Tamaki raises his head, cradling it carefully. Kyouya gently parts his lips, allowing the water to slip down his abused throat.

"Thank you..." He rasped.

"Why Kyouya?" Tamaki asked, placing the water on the bedside table yet still cradling Kyouya's head, "You really scared us... You scared me..."

"Tired... Talk later..." He mumbled, his eyes longing to fall closed again.

"No, we'll talk now," Tamaki denied.

 _Fool. I just want to sleep... Let me sleep..._

"Why did I have to break down the door of a bathroom stall to get to my best friend, who was passed out after purging. All because of a little broth, Kyouya. You even threw up blood. Didn't if hurt? What was the point?" Tamaki questions.

Kyouya wanted to scream. To tell him all the pain that would _go away_ when he starved or purged. To say how he deserved anything because, after all, he was a _demon_.

"Stop, Tamaki. If this is your concern, you can try to make it sound less narcissistic," He sighed. All of Tamaki's pleased involved himself; why did _he_ had to see it, why did _he_ had to break down the door, why was _he_ scared?

"Stop deflecting and tell me," Tamaki pushed, "You're so... fragile. It's not like you."

"You don't know me... You know my mask..." He muttered, before giving in to the sweet pull of unconsciousness.


	8. Platonic Comfort

The second time Kyouya awakes, he feels a little more anchored in reality.

He's aware that the cold, clinical room he awoke in is actually his own, but he should have expected that; after all, even with patient confidentiality, doctors and nurses talk. Their family's image is worth more than his health, of course; and he finds he's appreciative of that fact, if a little sad.

"Kyouya?" Tamaki inquires from his bedside, and a heavy pool of guilt and dread forms in his gut.

They know.

The host _know_.

 _Tamaki knows_.

They'll make him eat...

"Yes?" He responds, his voice weak and rough from dehydration and bile.

Tamaki notices, taking the glass from it's place on the bedside table and turning to him with a sad smile that makes Kyouya's hands ball and tighten in the crisp sheets.

That look screams _pity_. Kyouya Ootori is not _pitiable_ , so there would be no need for such an expression.

He takes the glass from Tamaki with shaking hands; he tells himself that he's quaking with anger - because how dare Tamaki pity him and attempt to cradle his head to 'help' him drink, like one would a sick child - but, in truth, it's purely starvation that gives him these tremors.

"Kyouya, lay back down and relax," Tamaki instructs, reaching out and gripping the glass, "You're shaking."

"I'm fine," he snaps, grip tightening on the glass until bony knuckles threaten to break through his thin skin, "I'm not an invalid, so don't treat me as one."

Tamaki observes his glaring friend's appearance. The soft t-shirt the maids bundled him in is baggy and hangs off one shoulder, displaying Kyouya's emaciated chest; collar bones like knives and ribs like prison bars. The hollow of Kyouya's neck is deep, and sinewy tendons hold his head on too-narrow shoulders and the arms attached are stick-thin.

He didn't realise the extent of the damage this-this _detestable_ sickness has wracked on Kyouya - _his_ Kyouya, the mummy to his daddy. He had to help, it was what friends did, and he knew that he had to be blunt.

"You're sick," Tamaki stated, "You've gotten over your head, but that's alright. It's not to late, I'm sure of it; and all of us will be here for you. You. Aren't. Alone."

Kyouya didn't know what to say; the trembling in his limbs worsened, spreading to his chest as he tried to repress the sobs that threatened to break free. Tamaki took the drink from him so that he wouldn't spill it over the sheets, and helped him sit up so that he could be enveloped in a warm, tender hug.

"I... I don't know what to do..." He murmured thickly, clamping his eyes shut against the forming tears. He shouldn't cry, not again, not again; how did he get so weak?

"Let us help you," Tamaki murmurs in his ear, "Small steps, that's all this is. Little things that grow and grow until you realise your well again; maybe even happy. Happy and healthy is the ultimate goal, but we don't need to worry about that now."

"What... what if I don't want to get better?" He whispers, "Nothing works if the subject has no motivation..."

"Then the goal for now is to get you to realise you want to get better," Tamaki states, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

Happiness seems so far away now; he can't remember a time where he smiled freely, but knows it happened - he has photographic evidence. He has a photo of himself, five years old and so happy with a simple stuffed toy that cost his parents 1000 yen, if memory serves.

What happened to the boy he was? He didn't paint in blood with a razor, but in acrylics on paper. He was content and laughed and played; why couldn't he be like he was back then?

He buries his face in the nape of Tamaki's neck, a tear managing to break free and roll down his gaunt cheek.

The pressures he was under - being the third son striving to fit his life in the picture frame, being an Ootori also meant perfection, the death of his mother leaving them with only himself (at the time) and his sister as the 'free spirits' of the house - were meant to turn him into a diamond, not to make him crack and shatter.

He thought to himself as more tears escaped his eyes, was Tamaki a scape-goat? He blamed this... whatever it was on striving to be perfect in appearance, as his friend was, but was that the real reason? This gave him the control he'd never truly had, every hunger pang proof of his resistance; so was it truly Tamaki that he did it for?

Maybe he was a trigger, but not the cause? Maybe this had been lying dormant for years, but the blond awoke his desire for it?

It wasn't important; he didn't blame Tamaki anyway, so what was the point in trying to dissect repressed emotions, and by that freeing them?

His breathing was ragged, Tamaki's shirt slowly beginning to dampen with his tears.

 _Ootoris don't cry, Ootoris don't cry..._

Kyouya chanted it over and over in his head, trying to rein back the control that was slipping away from him so quickly.

"Let it out, Kyo... You'll make yourself ill if you hold it in," Tamaki breathed, rubbing up and down Kyouya's back as willowy arms wrapped around his waist weakly.

"I-I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." He sniffs, hiccupping, even more control trying to slip out of his desperate hold.

"You have nothing to apologise for," Tamaki soothes, "Let it out, it's alright."

Kyouya is an ugly crier. His expression crumples into one that one would not expect someone of his so-called 'looks' would be able to, his chest heaves with choked sobs and mucus stains his upper lip. His cheeks become red and raw very quickly, his skin delicate and sensitive, and the whole ensemble is even more grotesque than usual.

Therefore, he presses himself flush against his best friend, hiding his face in the other boys neck and hoping he doesn't see.

"You'll feel better if you let it out," Tamaki whispers, "Like that, it's alright; I love you, Kyouya."

It's not a big confession, it's platonic love. They have said it to each other before, and many times after that; because they do. As far as either of them are concerned, it doesn't translate into romance.

"L-love you, t-t-too..." He stutters as he cries, and Tamaki kisses the top of his head in a comforting and friendly gesture.

And he cries, and cries; the pains in his chest slowly dissipating as he allows the tears to flow. He's exhausted by the end, and his stomach hurts; but Tamaki says the dangerous words, "You should have something to eat, you need some nutrition."

 **A/N: All platonic (for the moment) guys, sorry ~!**

 **I feel that what Kyouya and Tamaki's relationship is like when they have privacy from the other host club members is a lot like Germany and Italy (if you watch Hetalia). There's a deep love and respect between the both of them, in my opinion, whether platonic or not. Also, who says kisses can't be platonic? :)**


End file.
